Become Death
by Mars on Fire
Summary: He had to see for himself if it was true Dallas Winston was dead. One shot.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Outsiders, that honour goes to S.E. Hinton.

**A/N:** If this looks familiar, it's because I originally posted this one-shot up on another account. It's been awhile, fandom. Nice to see you again.**  
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**Summary:** He had to see for himself if it was true Dallas Winston was dead. One shot.

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**Become Death**

He stood in the shadows near the door, half-hidden by a dumpster. He made no noise as he leaned against the wall, absolutely still.

He learned a long time ago how to blend into his surroundings. It was a necessity in his line of work; whether it be lifting hubcaps, stealing a mint car, breaking into a store or holding up some poor sap in the middle of the night, it was essential to know how to blend in.

The cops would find you easily if you stood out; he knew this from observation. He once saw members of the River Kings knock over a grocery store, then loudly and proudly spray soda at each other as they walked down the street, making sure everyone saw them. The cops always pulled up quickly, and the River Kings always looked surprised.

He was different; he always had been. As a kid, he was always being the first to see the flashing lights, or see the fuzz out of the corner of his eye. His friends – if you could call them that – joked he was part bat or something. He wryly noted they had no concept of animalia. Bats were blind.

He stared at the two men hosing out the inside of their ambulance in the bay. It was late – far too late to be out on a mission like this, but he had no choice. He had no idea what came next, no idea what the protocol was in a situation like this. He had hoped not to know, all the while sensing the knowledge would come anyway. It was destined to, and he was destined to see it, if not live it.

He watched the rivulets of blood wash onto the pavement and run towards the drain. He wrinkled his nose distastefully. He had ridden in his share of ambulances, sometimes bleeding, sometimes not. He never thought about who had to clean them. He could still see the angry red splashes as he stared at the inside of the ambulance, until a spray of water flushed it away. It left a ring, the outline of dried blood showing just where it had landed. He watched the two men scrub, carrying on a conversation about football.

Football. They had no respect.

They paid him no mind, and he was sure they barely registered his presence. The hoses stopped, the towels came out, and ten minutes later he stiffened as the two men approached the door on his left.

"I dunno, I dunno," one of them said. "OSU's got a heckuva defence. I think they'll hold off them Longhorns, I tell you."

"Put some money on it, then I might believe you," the other laughed.

They let the door swing wide, but he didn't grab for it. Not yet.

He waited patiently. That was another characteristic the River Kings lacked. Patience was a virtue. His mother taught him that. Patience was for those who could think for themselves, those who knew the value of waiting and what it could get you. Impulse was swift, and impulse was deadly.

A moment later the door swung open again, and the two men returned pushing a metal gurney. They let the door swing wide again, arguing the entire way to the back of the ambulance where they loaded the gurney in. He was inside the door in a second.

He paused inside the building as the door clicked shut. The hallway was dim, the only light from a track in the ceiling further down the hall. He let his eyes adjust, then crept down the hall.

His shoes were noiseless on the linoleum, and he felt a sick thrill. If this was any other night, any other task, he would feel the exhilaration of quietly finding his way somewhere he shouldn't be. He squelched the feeling down and trained his gaze ahead to the door coming up on his left.

He walked past metal gurneys, lined in a row, as if waiting for some ghostly procession. He paused before he approached the doors, stealing himself for what could be behind them. In a place like this, you never knew.

He paused for a second, feeling the tickle on his upper lip. He wiped at it and found blood. He cursed quietly, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his leather jacket. It hadn't stopped bleeding since the rumble.

He looked at the door again, then put his arm against it and pushed.

He practically stumbled inside, cursing himself for making more noise than was necessary. He touched the small of his back, feeling for his weapon, just in case someone who had the misfortune of being here tonight walked in after hearing his unplanned commotion. He drew in a few short breaths, then relaxed.

The room was large and sterile, stainless steel tables pushed against stainless steel sinks. Water trickled from a leaky tap. The smell was strange. He recognized the formaldehyde from science class in years gone by, the faint odor hanging in the air. He recognized the antiseptic smell of cleaning solvents, but he didn't recognize the other smell, sickly sweet and slightly nauseating. He suspected he knew what it was.

He paused, looking around the room, trying to figure out where to go. His gaze rested on the far wall, stainless steel handles dotted along its expanse. He took in a deep breath and straightened his back, then stepped assuredly towards the wall. He'd always heard they froze dead bodies.

He grabbed one of the handles, waiting a moment, unsure he wanted to see what was beyond this. He shook his head, steeling himself. He did not come this far to pussy out.

He yanked on the handle.

He let out the breath he was unaware he was holding. The old man's face was slack, but peaceful. He stared at the jagged, sewn-together edges of a great incision. He swallowed, then pushed the drawer back in, the man's face disappearing into the abyss.

He took in a few more deep breaths, then realized with annoyance he was sweating despite the cold air that had puffed out toward him when he'd opened the drawer, carrying with it the smell of slightly spoiled meat. The smell of decay.

He moved to the next drawer, wishing someone had thought to put labels on the damn things. What if it was a fruitless search? He might not even be here. He glanced at the clock on the far wall – it was closing in on four o'clock in the morning.

He grabbed the handle of the second drawer and pulled. The face he saw startled him, and he stumbled back, crashing into a gurney, the sound so loud he thought his ears would bleed. He turned slowly back to the drawer, looking at the body.

He recognized the black-haired kid, even with his hair cut as short as it was. It shouldn't bother him - it wasn't like they were friends.

He swallowed bile as he looked at the kid's body, skin flaking off, the edges blackened and raw in places. Dally had said the kid was burned, but Jesus Christ. He'd never seen anyone burned before. He cringed, remembering the smell of Curly and the Curtis kid's burning flesh as they willingly held their cigarettes to each others' fingers. The smell of burning flesh was in the room.

With a burst of energy, he pushed the drawer back in, leaning against it and taking deep breaths, feeling something squeeze his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment and thought of the rumble a few hours earlier: the cheering, the feeling of euphoria and release when those bastards ran like hell to get away from them. When they'd won. He remembered how he felt when they'd won.

Slowly he opened his eyes.

He stood up straight again. He turned back towards the wall of drawers, the wall of horrors. He moved to the third drawer and pulled.

He figured he would've been startled, would've been upset, would've felt something. But he didn't. Staring at Dally dead was like staring at Dally alive. The old man and the kid had bothered him more. He pulled Dallas out further, his forehead creasing as he saw the cleaned wounds on his skin, disrupting the smooth line of an incision, which snaked around them in a gross ballet. Surgery had been useless. There was no blood, but his body was bruised terribly where each bullet had hit him. His arm was badly burned, the flesh singed and raw. It would have scarred him for life.

He counted. There were seven bullet wounds in his torso. Lucky number seven.

"You stupid son of a bitch," he said, his whispered words echoing like snake's hiss throughout the empty room. "You stupid motherfucking son of a bitch."

In life, Dallas would have laughed, would have called him a few choice names and laughed. It wasn't so funny now, was it Dallas? Dead on a slab just wasn't so funny.

He was struck with how young Dallas looked. His face had lost some of the cocky hard-edged bravado in death, even as deeply bruised and battered as it looked. He wondered for a moment if his own face looked as bad. He knew he was still bleeding, the taste of metal still on his lips. He looked down at Dallas again - he looked like a little kid. Like a little punk kid.

That's what he turned out to be after all.

What kind of fucking fool robs a store with an unloaded gun? Jesus, it was a good thing he'd never tried to recruit Dallas for his own gang. He couldn't afford fuck ups like that. He couldn't afford dead on a slab.

The news spread quickly, like wildfire in the dry grass, singeing each person it had touched. Only a few hours had passed, but it snaked around the neighbourhood.

_Dallas Winston's dead! Dallas Winston got shot! The cops got 'em, did you hear?_

The cops got him alright. Lucky number seven.

He shook his head at the kid on the slab.

"You're so fucking stupid, you know that?" he spat. "So damn fucking stupid! What kind of idiot are you, huh? You always said you knew better than them cops did … now look. Now look."

There was no answer. There would never be an answer.

He wondered when the kid had died. Dallas had beat it out of the rumble fast, dragging the Curtis kid with him. Don't think he hadn't noticed, oh, he had. He always did. Observation was key, and he observed. They had probably left to see the kid.

The kid was dead.

Dallas was dead.

"You think you lost something, that it?" His mind prickled that he was half-wild talking to a dead body like this. "You think you lost something? Well, who the fuck cares? You didn't care about your old man, didn't care about your old lady … what makes this any different, huh?"

You never rely on anyone but yourself. Dallas had always said that. Fucking liar was what he was.

"So you let the cops get you, that it?" he asked. "Too chicken shit to do it yourself? Or so fucked up you fucked up and let them get you? Either way you lost, you piece of shit. Either way, they won."

He paced for a second, staring at Dallas's impassive face.

"I'm smarter than that," he said. "I always told you, now you gotta believe it. I'm smarter than that, Dallas."

He pushed the drawer back in, Dallas's face disappearing from his view. The next time it opened would be to surgical masks and scalpels, ready to slice his flesh and weigh his organs. Into the ground hours later. He took in a deep breath, then slammed a fist against the cold stainless steel, letting out a muffled cry as he felt a bone in his hand crack. He could blame it on the rumble.

He stood up straight, took a few more gulps of air, but found it insufficient. It smelled like death and it tasted like death and he was not death.

He turned towards the doors and had walked only a few steps before he saw the man, leaning against his mop.

He fumbled getting the gun out from his waist band, but managed to cock it and point it at the man, who didn't flinch. Tim moved to the side, seeing the black man's gaze follow him.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he asked him, gesturing with the gun. "You make one wrong move I'll pop you right here."

"So pop me then," the man said. He was easily in his sixties, and just as easily didn't care he had a gun pointed at him.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, seeing his arm shake a little. He was tired. His arm was tired. It was exhaustion from the rumble, that was all.

"Cleaning," the man said, gesturing to the mop. He was quiet a moment. "For a man that don't wanna end up like his friend, you sure are doin' a great job of following in his footsteps."

"Bullshit," he said quietly. He cleared his throat. "Go on then, get outta here."

The man shrugged and resumed his mopping, the pungent odour of disinfectant making his head swim. The man watched him with eagle eyes as he headed towards the doors.

"And he wasn't my friend," he added, as he pushed on the set of doors leading to the hall.

He burst out into the hall, then tucked the gun in his waist band again. He didn't care about the squeaking his shoes made, or the sound his footfalls made. He wanted clean air.

He wasn't my friend, Tim thought, bursting outside into a cold rain that was like shards of glass on his broken face.

He wasn't.


End file.
